Christmas Collection
by demitasse 007
Summary: Here is a litte Christmas gift to all of you Evo. fans still alive out there.
1. Wonderful

It was three days before Christmas Eve, and the weather was both frightful and delightful. Thick snow fell outside of the picturesque home of the Summers family, blanketing the ground with white fluff just asking to be made into snow angels or turned into powdery snow balls ready for battle. Regardless of the current weather,which would normally bring joy to any child whose beliefs were that every Christmas was a white one, Scott closed his eyes, the icy blue orbs brimming with unshed tears. He could hear the muffled yelling from his parents room above him as he dried the dishes in the kitchen.

Alex didn't understand what was happening, he was too young, but Scott did, in all his eight year old wisdom. Three years his brother's senior, he knew that his mommy and daddy were angry with each other, it never seemed to end. And then they took it out on him, well, not intentionally. Daddy yelled at him for the smallest things, and sometimes left the house and stayed at work for days, and Mommy sometimes wouldn't leave her room for days. He could hear her sobbing from outside the door where he often found himself sitting, doing his his third grade homework, stumbling over his spelling and grammar. Daddy used to help him with his homework, but now he was never home, and if he was, he was always angry about something.

He took good care of Alex though. His five year old brother remained oblivious to the problems between their mommy and daddy, instead, finding that his older brother made a great playmate, and was the one to go to whenever he needed anything. Scottie made him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and sometimes cut them into funny shapes, and he helped him get ready for bed at night too. Sometimes, Scottie would even go on rides around the block with him, going slow so Alex could keep up with his two wheeled bike with his tricycle, little legs pumping furiously.

Scott's best friend Andy's parents got a divorce a year ago, and now he spent all of his time either at his Mommy's house the next town over, or at his Daddy's around the block. Scott missed the days that he and his best friend would spend the afternoon swimming in their pool, their families laughing and babbling as his Mommy bounced Alex on her knee, both mothers keeping a trained eye on the boys roughhousing in the pool, yelling when things got out of hand or their screaming got too loud. Andy had told him his Mommy left because his parents yelled at each other all of the time, and Scott was worried that his Mommy and Daddy were going to become just like Andy's.

Holding back his tears, he took a deep breath and reached for the glass sitting on the edge of the sink, clean, waiting for him to dry it and put in on the stack of dishes to be put away. He had made sure Alex was preoccupied in the living room, amused with his Christmas coloring book and crayons, the television turned on to holiday cartoons to try to block out some of the yelling from his parents. The wet glass slipped from his fingers, falling into the sink, making a cracking noise as it hit the side of the sink on the way into the soapy, dirty water. Without thinking, he plunged his hand into the murky water, and, feeling his hand stinging, withdrew it without the glass, or well, without the complete glass. Suddenly the stinging turned into burning agony as Scott stared at the glass sticking out of his palm, and the blood covering his arm, dripping into the sink and staining the water sickly pink.

Face white, he screamed.

His father crashed into the kitchen, closely followed by his mother. His father grabbed him, and his mother took the dish towel he had been using earlier and wrapped it around his wrist as he howled in pain, and then was reduced into sobbing into his daddy's strong shoulder as the man tried to calm his son as he searched for the car keys. They were currently living off base, so the closest hospital was ten miles away. Christopher found the keys on the counter under the newspaper; it was hard to search and hold the child at the same time, but he never even considered putting him down, not that Scott would let go the death-grip he had on his sweater. Katherine grabbed Alex as she made through the living room with an armful of bath towels, explaining to the toddler that: "Scott got hurt."

Alex quickly followed his mother, who was clutching his hand tightly as she bundled him into the front seat of the car with his winter coat. She took the drivers seat after making sure everyone was buckled in and instructed Christopher to make sure to apply pressure to Scott's wound on his wrist. Scott couldn't remember anything hurting as badly as his hand and wrist were right now. Only his father's soothing voice and strong arms kept him from screaming, bu that didn't stop him from sobbing until he had trouble breathing. The fresh snow on the streets glimmered from the streetlamps as Katherine drove as fast as possible, but still remain safe.

Those ten miles seemed endless to the people in the vehicle as they slipped and skidded down the near empty highway to the hospital. Even before the car came to a complete stop, Christopher had bolted out of the car and into the freezing air, the doors to the emergency room opening automatically to let him in. By that point, Scott was feeling a bit woozy, and didn't put up much of a protest as his daddy set him down on a gurney and let the doctors take him away. They hadn't had to wait, as soon as Christopher had entered, clutching a profusely bleeding child to his chest and yelling for help, the nurses had immediately given Scott first priority.

Scott felt sick as he watched the nice doctor who had introduced himself as , stick the needle into his hand near where he had the glass stuck. It hurt for a few moments after the man had pushed the plunger and the medicine had gone into his hand, but after that, both of his cuts had stopped hurting. A friendly nurse in a Santa hat regaled him with a story about when she was a little girl and she and her younger sister had snooped around the house for their Christmas presents, encountering many humorous episodes and events along the way, while the kind doctor gently and carefully cleaned the wounds and removed the large shard of glass from his palm.

Dr. Merton was stitching up Scott's hand and wrist when Christopher poked his head in.

"Hey Navigator," his father smiled slightly. "How're you doing?"

Scott perked up, his father was......happy? "Good."

"I'm glad," Christopher glanced at the doctor. "You're going to have a couple of new war wounds kiddo."

Scott rolled his eyes much to the doctor, and his father's amusement. "Don't think there's a Purple Heart waiting for me." He yawned.

Christopher glanced at his watch, amazed to see that it was around midnight all ready.

"That should do it, son." The Doctor tied off the sutures on his wrist and cut the thread. "You've been very brave."

"And really dumb." He yawned again. "Stuck my hand in the stupid sink." He yawned again. "Dropped the stupid glass. Really stupid."

Christopher didn't have the heart to reprimanded his exhausted son for his blatant use of prohibited language, he'd address that issue when the boy was more coherent. He refrained from chuckling, even though Scott insisted that he was old enough to stay up all night on New Years Eve this year, he couldn't string together a complete sentence even if he tired at the moment. wrapped some gauze around Scott's injuries, taping it securely. Scott tried to make a fist but his entire hand was numb, so the best he could muster was a feeble twitching of his fingers. With another wide yawn, the older doctor finally nodded pleasantly to Scott, eyes twinkling.

"All done, but I want you to stay here for about another hour just in case you feel sick," the doctor smiled at Christopher. "You are welcome to stay with your son if you wish, Mr. Summers. I am going to write down the instructions for you to clean and care for Scott's stitches, as well as give you some gauze and tape, and cream in case the sutures get dry or itchy. Would you like me to give everything to your wife?"

Christopher nodded. "That would be great, Doctor, thank you so much."

"Yep," Scott yawned. "Thanks."

Merton smiled warmly at Scott. "It was my pleasure. Have a happy, and safe holiday." And then the doctor was gone, leaving a very sleepy Scott and a very awkward feeling Christopher together in the small cubicle.

"I'm sorry, Daddy." Scott mumbled as his father made his way over to the bed and sat down next to his son.

"What for?" The older man was perplexed by Scott's apology.

"For breaking the glass, 'n cutting m'self." Scott yawned, snuggling up to his father's side. Christopher smiled as Scott basically crawled into his lap, and adjusted himself so both of them would be more comfortable while Scott slept.

"It's fine, Navigator," Christopher ran is hand through Scott's thick chestnut hair so similar to his own, but the young boy's was long and shaggy, in need of a trip to the barber, while his own was usually crew cut or neatly trimmed. "It wasn't your fault. It was an accident."

"I jus' want you 'n Mommy to be happy again," Scott snuggled even closer to his father's chest, listening to the beating of his heart.

"But we are happy."

"No," Scott mumbled. "You're gonna get a divorce, jus' like Andy's momma and daddy, and I won't see you no more. I don' want.....S'rry."

With that, the child slipped off into oblivion, leaving a shocked Christopher Summers trying to comprehend exactly why Scott had been led to believe he was going to leave Cathrine. Not happy? The fighting. Cathrine's family was trying to get them to move back closer to her childhood home so the family could be closer to one another, but Christopher didn't want to leave his position as a test pilot, and they had been very verbal about their opinions. But it never crossed his mind that Scott would link the normal fighting between spouses with divorce.

"I promise you, my Navigator," Christopher kissed Scott's temple, whispering into his ear in a rare display of open, raw emotion before shutting his eyes against the tears threatening to well up in his eyes, "We are, and always will be a family."

Scott's eyes flickered slightly open as he took in his father's features. He had, of course, been awake the entire time. He was eight years old after all, he did have a few espionage tricks up his sleeve, not that his father knew that. As his father opened his now dry eyes, Scott quickly shut his, and this time, reassured that he would never be alone, fell into a deep, peaceful slumber, dreaming of Christmas Day, filled with presents, and a phone call from his grandparents, and teaching Alex to make snow men in the front yard. Santa Claus' visit was all but a few days away, and Scott knew for sure that both he and Alex were on the Nice List. But most importantly, now that he knew that his Mommy and Daddy still loved each other, Christmas took on a whole new spirit. He would never be alone ever again, because that was what Christmas time was really all about.

*****************************

Staring at his palm and wrist, Scott could still faintly see the faded scars of his childhood accident. Even though the actual wounds had long ago healed, he knew others still remained, deeply hidden. Those painful hurts would never go away, they were the void that kept him up at night, the hollow ringing inside of his head, and the heavy feeling in his chest, suffocating him as the other students at the Institute spoke happily about their plans for the Christmas Holidays and rushed around to find the perfect presents for their families. Those scars were all he had to remember the last Christmas he spent with his family.

The flickering orange light from the fireplace cast a glow upon the entire room, and Scott closed his eyes as he battled the feeling of acute loneliness. Nine years to the day that he received those scars; three days before Christmas Eve, Scott now sat alone, knowing that no matter how much he wished it, he would never be able to go back to those times in his flickering memories, so vague and indistinct sometimes that he considered believing that nothing was real and his entire past was a figment of an overactive imagination. The memories that still remained that was, of course. Precious few reminders of the days before his lost his family remained, a side effect of his head injury from the crash that took their lives.

"What'cha think'in 'bout?" Rogue sat down on the couch next to him, startling him out of his self-pity.

"Nothing," he muttered quickly.

"Don't look like nothin'," she touched his shaking hand which he still held out in front of himself. Softly, she traced the scars. "I always whondered where'd ya get 'em?"

Cocking his head, he looked at her. "You sure you want to sit here and listen to me tell a boring story?"

We a'hre snowed in, ya know." She paused, looking closer at his expression which was still tinged with sadness."'N only if yer willin' ta share," she murmured softly.

He nodded. "But only if you share one with me," He held up a hand to silence her protests. "This is the season of giving, isn't it?"

Rogue chuckled. "Ya drive a m'hean bargan, Summers." She breathed in deeply. "F'hine. Ah agree ta yer terms."

"Good," he breathed in deeply. He wasn't sure why, but he somehow knew the southern girl would understand why he felt so alone during these days of celebration. And maybe....Sharing some of his pain might make those painful invisible wounds heal, if just a little bit. "You see these scars?" He pointed to the two old injuries, long healed, "well, it was thee days before Christmas Eve, on a night a lot like this........"


	2. The Great Christmas Escipade

"Mah Gawd, he's such a stick 'en tha mud," Scott heard Rogue's whisper from across the living room clearly enough that it stung him inside.

"He's, like, always been anal-retentive," Kitty gossiped back with a giggle.

Sighing, Scott rolled his eyes behind his glasses, and resisted the urge to turn around and explain to the two gossipers that spending four months completely blind really helps with your auditory skills, but resisted the urge. They were right to a point, about him being a control freak tha is, but neither of the girls knew why he acted the way he did. Actually, very few people knew about his past, and even less people understood the burden of always being on alert for threats that could knock the glasses from your face, forcing you to turn the person standing in front of you into a mushy pile of blood and guts.

He walked silently from the living room and entered the kitchen where Ororo and Jean were attempting to teach Kurt about the joys of pre-made cookie dough. He couldn't seem to grasp the concept of cookie dough being rolled in to round tubes and simply open, cut into slices and cooked rather than painstakingly put together ingredient by ingredient from a homemade recipe.

"It's like this, Kurt," Jean explained, "they make the dough at a giant factory, okay? Then it's cut and rolled up into these little cylinder rolls of dough. Finally it's packaged and sealed. Then we buy it at the grocery store and open it and cut the dough into little pieces and cook it, and viola, we have cookies."

"But......" Kurt trailed off, seeing Scott. "Ah, Scott, cookie?"

Scott smiled and shook his head, "I don't really like the pre-made kind."

"There you see it!" Kurt exclaimed.

Jean and Ororo turned and gave Scott a combined death glare that made him wince. "What?"

Even though Kurt had been raised civilly and was almost fluent in English in addition to his native tongue, German, he still struggled with American ideas and customs. It never ceased at amaze him to what extent these people would go to if only to avoid work. He had been raised sheltered, home schooled due to his mutation with very few friends. His adoptive parents were kind and good-intentioned people, but keeping him cooped up on their small farm out in the woods had been a mistake. As soon as the teenager had joined the group at Xavier's, he had taken to the customs the other kids had, such as staying up until three in the morning playing video games and not waking up until noon the next day, living solely on fast food, primarily burgers, and despising homework the same as the other school-aged inhabitants of the mansion.

"We were planning on teaching Kurt some Christmas carols," Ororo said sweetly, "but Scott has been so kind that he volunteered to teach him. What a good Samaritan you are, getting into the Christmas spirit like that." With that, Jean and Ororo vanished out the kitchen in a stampede of laughter as they escaped their tedious task of enlightening their foreign student about American Christmas customs.

"Wait, what?" Scott ran a hand through his hair, confused. "Christmas carols?"

Both women nodded.

Scott blinked at Kurt. "Teach him?"

They nodded again.

Scott sighed, "Fine."

Jean and Ororo exchanged triumphant looks.

"Come on, Elf-Boy, I nominate if I'm going to have to teach you these carols, we do them someplace with less nosy walls with ears around," Scott turned and led Kurt out of the room. Jean could hear Kurt quietly speaking and began giggling at his question.

"Ah,Scott vhat doez ears have to do with valls?"

"It's an expression, Kurt."

"Ah."

It was an hour later, and Scott and Kurt were sitting in the Rec. room enjoying their third cups of hot chocolate. Unfortunately for Scott, his quick metabolism had never been good at dealing with large quantities of sugar. Halloween was a nightmare for whoever he was around if he got into the candy out just for the children in costume who would come to the door. Hot chocolate is basically liquid sugar when it comes down to it. Kurt was beginning to feel silly from the brew, but Scott was past gone. By his fourth cup, he couldn't sing a line of a carol correctly if his life depended on it.

"Now get this, Kurt," he said, a thought popping into his mind. A very devious, un-Scott like thought. "This is Jingle Balls."

"Jingle Ballz?" Kurt asked, quirking an eyebrow. "Veally?"

"Yeah," Scott nodded, "these carols have the strangest names."

"Jingle balls, jingle balls, jingle all the way. Old bucket head must have balls of steel, hey! Jingle balls, jingle balls, jingle all the way! Oh what fun it is to listen to old bucket head clinking away!"

"No vay!" Kurt said. "Veally?"

Scott nodded. Kurt had only learned to speak English from movies, English books, and his mother who spoke only a few phrases.

"And this one is Deck His Balls."

"Zoever wrote zese songs really zad a, um vat am I looking for? Strong like of ballz? Maybe zey vorked as a Gym Teacher? Like zey vere around kick ballz and soccer ballz all day?"

"Yeah," Scott struggled to keep a straight face, "that's possible."

"So, Deck Zis Ballz-"

"Deck his balls in all their glory, fa la la, la la la la. Tis the season to be horny fa la la la la la la. Don we now the gay apparel. Fa la la la la la la. Hope we don't wake up naked tomorrow on the kitchen table fa la la la la, la la la la!"

Kurt grinned. "Okay. I think I've got vit."

"Try I Saw Daddy Kissing Santa Clause-"

That evening, Jean stood up at dinner, bringing the whole room to attention.

"Hey everyone," she announced. Everyone paused, putting down their forks or stopping their conversations. "Scott was kind enough to teach Kurt some Christmas Carols today, so Ororo and I have decided that he's going to lead us in a little post-dinner sing along in the living room followed by toasting marsh mellows in the fireplace and making smores."

Rogue muttered darkly under her breath, but Kitty seemed happy to do it. Oddly even though she was Jewish, she loved Christmas Carols. Her parents were very religious, but she didn't really follow a religion. She, in a way, went with the flow of society.

Scott's face paled underneath his glasses, and he tried to stop himself from sinking lower in his chair. He dragged out dinner for as long as possible, trying to formulate a plan to save himself in his mind. After all of the dishes were done, dried, and put away, the mutants sojourned to the living room for their team bonding.

"Ziz one is called Deck Ziz Ballz," Kurt said.

"Deck what-"

"Deck ziz ballz in all their glory fa la la, la la la la. Tiz ze season to be horny-"

"SCOTT!"

By the time the two enraged super powered mutants who had forced Scott into teaching Kurt the songs realized what Scott had done, he was long gone. He had suck out the kitchen window, and was currently running for his life away from the estate.

"SCOTT SUMMERS, I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!"

The moral of the story? Is it don't teach dirty renditions of Christmas songs to foreigners, or is it don't give large amounts of sugar to mutants with supercharged metabolism? The world may never know. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.


	3. I Believe

"What is Santa getting for you?

The innocent question set off repercussions which would forever remain in the minds of every inhabitant of Xavier's Institute for Gifted Youngsters.

Jean turned and blinked at Jamie. "Santa Claus?"

Jamie nodded.

"Uh-I don't know," she said with a smile, "hopefully a new soccer ball."

Jamie grinned, "I hope he's bringing me a new sled."

Jean smiled at him, "Did you write him a letter?"

"Write who a letter?" Scott asked as he walked into the kitchen, munching on a cherry-flavored candy cane.

"Santa," Jean said, "Jamie wants a new sled."

Scott paused mid-chew, "Santa?"

Jean nodded.

"Oh." Scott nodded, "yeah, Santa Claus. The jolly man in red. Right."

"What do you want Santa to bring you?" Jamie asked innocently.

"Er-" Scott wracked his mind, "a new set of shocks for my car."

"Oh." Jamie made a face. "That's---kinda boring."

Scott chuckled, "yeah. I guess it is."

"Well I'm going to go finish watching my movie," Jamie said, skipping off through the kitchen door. As soon as he was gone, Scott turned to Jean.

"What do you mean, Santa, Jean? He doesn't know-"

"Apparently not," Jean said, chewing on one of her finger nails. "What are we going to do, Scott?"

"Well he's what, almost eleven?"

Jean nodded.

"Do you think we should tell him before he finds out the hard way?"

"No!' Jean exclaimed. "Next year, Scott, but not now. I mean, he's so innocent. Shouldn't he be able to enjoy at least one last year of being a kid?"

Scott sighed, sitting down at the kitchen table. Rubbing his temples, he nodded. "Yeah, it's not right. But how are we going to pull this off? Bobby's bound to say something-"

At that moment, three Jamie's went bolting through the kitchen, tears flowing down their cheeks like rivers.

"JAMIE!" Bobby came racing after him, "Wait!"

"What's going on?" Jean demanded of Bobby.

"I, oh crap, well said something about Santa not being real. But seriously, I had no idea he didn't know!" Bobby's blue eyes were wide, "I mean, if I did know, I wouldn't tell him. That's like, just plain cruel."

Jean sighed, letting her head rest on the table top as she took a seat next to Scott. "Sit down, Bobby. We need to figure out a way to fix this."

It was Christmas night when Scott found Jamie sitting forlornly on the couch in front of the Christmas tree in all of it's glory. When the Professor did Christmas, he really did Christmas. The tree was at least eight feet high. Luckily the room had a high-arched ceiling, offering plenty of room for the tree to stand tall, a glowing, golden star adorning the top. The branches were draped in silver and gold tinsel, which reflected the softly glowing white lights strung around the tree. The students had pitched in together to decorate the tree. Beautiful glass balls and decorations covered the tree. It was a truly beautiful sight.

"Hey," Scott flopped down on the couch next to the young boy. "What's up?"

"Nothin'," the boy said, head propped up on his hand as he gazed at the tree.

"You look kind of down. It's Christmas Eve, I mean, like only the third best day of the year."

"The third?"

Jamie sat up and looked at Scott.

"Well there's Christmas Day," Scott ticked off on his fingers, "your Birthday, and then finally Christmas Eve."

Jamie smiled, "yeah, I guess you're right." He went back to looking sadly at the tree.

"What's wrong, Jamie?" Scott asked gently.

"I just-well, Bobby told me there's no Santa," Bobby once again looked at Scott, big, brown, puppy dog eyes dark and sad.

"Oh," Scott said, acting surprised. "Really?"

"Yeah, we were watching TV, and I said: "I know Santa is going to bring me the sled I asked him for. And then Bobby said: "You mean the Professor, right?" And then I said: "No, Santa Claus." And Bobby was like, "yeah but the Professor _is_ Santa Claus."

"Oh," Scott nodded sagely, "You know, someone tried to tell me the same thing when I was a kid."

"Really?" Bobby blinked, "what did you do?"

"I went to check for myself," Scott said confidently, "and I saw him."

"Saw who?" Bobby asked eagerly.

"Why, Santa Claus of course," Scott smiled happily at the young mutant.

"_You_ saw Santa?" Jamie asked in disbelief.

"Yep, I was eight years old," Scott confided.

"So you believe in Santa?" Bobby asked, voice so innocent, Scott had to hide a wince at having to lie to him.

"Of course I do."

"So, what should I do?" Jamie asked, finally looking happy.

"Well, you could always see for yourself," Scott suggested, "you know, like I did."

Jamie nodded, "you know what? I think I will."

That night, Bobby accompanied a very sleepy Jamie downstairs, dressed in their pajamas. It was almost midnight, and all of the inhabitants of the mansion, who were still there, were in bed. Minus a select few that is.

Jean had forgone her usual trek to her parents house on Christmas Eve, instead deciding on going Christmas Day instead, citing the bad condition of the roads as her excuse. In reality, she, Scott, and Bobby had a very meticulous plan set up.

"Look, Jamie," Bobby whispered loudly, "there's no one down here. Can we go back to bed now?"

"No," Jamie insisted, "Scott said he _saw_ Santa when he was a kid. I need to prove to you that Santa is real."

"Okay, okay. Chill out," Bobby resigned himself. They were hidden behind the banister on the staircase. It wasn't the best hiding spot, but it was perfect for this situation.

Five minutes passed, and then ten.

"Maybe he's not coming," Jamie whispered more to himself than Bobby.

Bobby frowned, wondering what was going on.

And then suddenly, there was a rustling from the shadows of the room. Out of seemingly nowhere, a figure draped in scarlet came out, hefting a heavy burlap bag. The only feature Jamie and Bobby could see was the heavy white beard obstructing the man's face. Jamie gasped, and Bobby carefully concealed his grin.

"It's _Santa,_" Jamie whispered, "he's really real, Bobby. Told ya so."

Bobby smiled at him, "yeah, I guess you _were_ right."

Jamie watched in fascination as he saw Santa finish laying out all of the gifts carefully underneath the tree, nibble on the cookies Jamie and Scott had left out for the jolly night visitor, sip the glass of milk carefully, and then, walking over to the fireplace, disappear up the dark space in a flash of red and green sparkles.

"WOW! BOBBY!" Jamie exclaimed loudly, "did you see-'

Bobby clamped a hand over Jamie's mouth, "keep it down," he growled, "you're going to wake up the entire place!"

"Wow. I need to go tell Scott," Jamie scrambled up the stairs.

"No, Jamie-" Bobby tried to grab him, "wait!"

When Jamie opened Scott's door, he trotted silently over the carpet. "Scott?"

The form in the bed shifted, sitting up. With the blue quilt on the bed pulled up to his chin, Scott sat up, eyes obscured behind his odd ruby quartz sleeping goggles. "Wha-Jamie? What are you-I mean, are you okay?"

'Yeah. Scott, I just saw SANTA," the younger mutant bounced on the balls of his bare feet, "Bobby and I saw him and he was **real**. You were right! It was so awesome, I mean. Wow."

Scott grinned sleepily at him, "good for you, kid. But now it's time to go to bed."

Bobby burst into the room, gaping as he saw Scott, but recovering nicely.

"Yeah, we really did see Santa," Bobby said with a smile.

"So I've heard," Scott noted, "but I think it's time you two went to bed. I have a feeling it will be an exciting day tomorrow."

Bobby nodded, grabbing Jamie by the shoulder and spinning him around.

"G'Night you two. And Merry Christmas," Scott called quietly after them.

"'Night Scott, and thanks," Jamie poked his head back into the room before Bobby tugged him away.

As soon as the two were gone, Scott leaned back into his pillows with a relieved sigh revealing that he was wearing a red Santa suit underneath his quilt. Jean opened the door of his closet, grinning.

"This costume is itchy," Scott complained.

"You were great," Jean sat down next to him, and, kissing him on the cheek, stood up again. "Goodnight Santa."

"G'Night Mrs. Claus," Scott shot back cheekily.

Jean mock-glared at him before winking at him. "You did a great thing, Slim."

"And I'd have to say that was a great illusion," Scott said, "he had no idea I just walked out of the room instead of actually going up the chimney."

Jean giggled, "I can't wait until I have kids. This was so much fun."

"Me too."

They exchanged embarrassed looks.

"Well, see you in," Scott checked his alarm clock, "four and a half hours."

"Yeah," Jean, "Merry Christmas, Scott."

"You too, Red."

The next day, the Professor smiled knowingly at his young charges as Jamie gleefully told everyone about his and Bobby's experience seeing Santa early that morning. He knew they would figure something out to do in the end. After all, no one likes to ruin the Christmas spirit.

It wasn't until all of the presents were opened and the children and teenagers had taken their new items upstairs when Xavier found one last gift sitting on the edge of the bookshelf.

Curiously, he wheeled over to it, taking it down and looking at it. On the small tag, it read: "To Charles, from Santa."

Shaking his head, Xavier chuckled, opening the package carefully. Underneath the gaily colored Christmas wrapping paper, Xavier found a plain, varnished wood box. Opening that gingerly, his jaw dropped. With shaking hands, he took the small glass ornament out of the velvet lining of the box. In his palm sat a delicate glass bird, a robin, it's wings arched in flight. It had been his favorite ornament when he was a child, but this was impossible. There was no physical way that this could happen. He had watched his stepbrother smash the glass bird into a thousand pieces one Christmas day so many years before in a spiteful rage.

But there it sat in his shaking palm.

'Maybe,' he thought to himself, lovingly running a finger over the wings, 'just maybe there really is a Santa Claus.'


	4. December 23

Rogue sighed, watching the snow in a thick blanket outside of the window of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters in Bayville New York. She hated winter. Seriously. What was so great about a season which brought cold, frozen rain, and endless airport delays? Christmas was a total waste of time. She hadn't celebrated the holiday since Irene, well. She didn't want to go there. The point was that winter sucked. End of story.

Kurt had invited her to go to Germany with him and spend the holidays with his adoptive family, but she had declined, knowing it would be an awkward situation, especially since she didn't speak a word of German. As far as she knew, Jean had gone home, as did Kitty, Evan, and Ororo. Xavier was at a Christmas Benefit Show for the children's hospital he donated to every year, and Logan had taken off somewhere to enjoy his holiday free of children alone, probably at some truck stop nursing a beer in Canada. Fun, right?

And Scott?

Rogue blew on the frigid glass, fogging it up with her breath. Idly, she traced a swirled design on the surface with her fingertip.

Scott. She hadn't seen him all day. Briefly he had been at breakfast, but he had disappeared soon after, and regardless of her searching high and low (although she would never admit it), she had not found a trace of her fellow student.

Not that it mattered though. She was better off on her own than to have to deal with Scott Summers, perfect golden boy, boyscout extraordinaire. With a sigh, she wiped away her drawing and leaned her forehead against the glass, a shiver running through her body. She hated snow. She hated winter. And most of all, she hated Christmas.

She ate dinner alone that night. It was just a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a green apple. Even though she could technically cook five hundred times better than Kitty could, she chose not to. Sitting in the living room, she struggled to find a program on the television which wasn't about Christmas. Finally she settled on a documentary on the creation of the first nuclear bomb. Exciting.

She must have dozed off after awhile, because the shifting of the couch brought her back into consciousness. Eyes snapping open, she blinked, hands coming up into a defensive position.

"Woah, there killer," Scott said, hands held palms up in front of him, "I come in peace."

Rogue rolled her eyes, "why don't ya try that once m'hore, ya idgit. I could kill ya the next time 'round."

Scott grinned, "Guess what?"

"A'hm finally gettin' that Princess Barbie ah always wanted fer Christmas?" She asked dryly.

Scott frowned. "No, but if you really want one-"

"Look," she growled, "A'hm try'in ta watch this....progra'hm 'bout," she leaned over and looked at the television, "John F. Kennedy. So spit it out, what'cha want?"

Scott frowned again, "Look, I know you're not really big on the whole 'Happy Holidays' thing so-"

"This is touchin', really Scott, but ah don't need yer pity, 'k? Jus' 'cause poor l'il 'ol Rogue got left a'hlone fer the holidays doesn't mean ah wanna talk 'bout it, 'kay?"

"It's not like that," Scott said, looking at his hands, "I just-worry about you, okay?"

"Well don't!"

"I don't understand why you won't let anyone close to you," Scott said softly. "There are so many people put there who care about you. But you-just keep pushing them away."

Rogue ducked her head. "Scott, yeh will nevea understand what it's like not ta be able to touch people. It's like-sometimes ah don't exist 'n-ah just disappear." She sighed. "Did ya know it's possible ta be in a room filled wit'h people, yet be comphletely alone?"

He nodded. "You're not the only one with power malfunctions, Rogue."

She flushed slightly, "Ah-whell, it's different. Okay? Ah mean, here ya are, and ya can hug, ya can touch, ya can kiss." She flushed darker. "But a-a'hm trapped in this body 'n ah can't escape."

Scott took her gloved hand in his own. "Look at me, Rogue."

She looked up.

"Someday someone will come along, someone perfect for you. They won't care about your flaws and imperfections. They will love you unconditionally because you are who you are."

"But a'hm scared that a'hm gonna' lose who ah am," She whispered quietly, fighting tears. "There's so mahny voices inside mah head...a'hm terirfied a'hm gonna' to forget which one is mhine."

"Come here," he pulled her into a hug, letting her face rest in the hollow of his shoulder, his sweatshirt protecting him from skin-to-skin contact. "You won't forget, Rogue-" he said over her sobs, "because you will always have family to remind you of who you are inside."

Looking up, her heavy makeup smeared across her tear streaked face, she smiled at him, straight white teeth flashing. "Ya always know what ta say."

"Must be a secondary mutation," he said in mock-seriousness. "But really," he became serious once more, "you are _never_ alone in this, okay? All of us care too much about you to lose you. Okay? If not for yourself, then for me, okay? Rogue-I've lost too many people I love already. I can't lose any more. So please. Please. Never, ever forget how much we all care about you."

She nodded tearfully.

"Now," Scott smiled at her, "I have a surprise for you."

"Scott-"

"Just come on," he grinned at her, "I worked all day on it." He glanced out the window. "I hope the snow hasn't ruined it."

"Um....Can ah just get cleaned up first?" Rogue asked. "A'hm kinda' a mess."

Scott eyed her for a moment, "I don't think you are. But if you'd feel more comfortable....well.....just dress warm. Okay?"

"Dhress wharm? Scott-ya know ah hate snow!"

He just grinned mysteriously at her. "Gloves, boots, coat, hat, scarf," he ticked off on his fingers. "Got it?"

She shook her head, "the things ah do-"

Twenty minutes later he and Rogue were sitting in his car as he edged carefully over the icy roads. Rogue had taken off her thick makeup, and Scott personally thought she looked better without it. She had fair skin, large red-pink lips, and naturally alluring eyes. Without the heavy Gothic makeup, she could break any man's heart.

Rogue was gripping the edge of her seat tightly, knuckles white. "Where ahre we goin'?"

"It's a surprise."

"But tha roads-"

"I've driven in worse," he told her, "don't worry about it."

"But-"

Scott flipped on the radio, flicking through the stations until he found one blaring Christmas music. Turning it up to block out her protests, he began humming along to Jingle Bell Rock.

Rogue shook her head and rolled her eyes, resigning herself to being trapped with a maniac mutant in a car sliding around on icy roads, heading for God knows where, in the middle of a snowstorm. She instead began to watch the snow whipping past the headlights of Scott's car, marveling at it glittering in the harsh light like millions of tiny, falling diamonds.

Finally he pulled into a small parking lot on the outskirts of Bayville. The car slid a bit as Scott wheeled into the lot, causing Rogue's stomach to clench painfully. Scott chuckled softly, putting the car into park.

"Stay here," he instructed, getting out of the car but leaving it running for her.

"Where are ya-"

"Just be patient," he chuckled. "You'll see."

She rolled her eyes, "be phaitent he says."

Scott shut his door and went to his truck. Rogue couldn't see what he was getting out, and couldn't see where he went as he trekked into the snow away from the car. The night and the storm obstructed her vision and left her feeling rather caged inside of the vehicle.

About fifteen long minutes later, Scott knocked on her window, startling her. She glared at him as he dashed around the car and got in on his side, turning up the heat and rubbing his gloved hands together. "It's cold out there," he smiled, face flushed like a little boy's from the bitter cold.

"It's winter," Rogue said with less sarcasm than she thought she would use in this situation. "Yha'd think it'd be cold."

"Right," Scott chuckled. "If you think this is bad, try living in Alaska."

"Yah lived in-"

"I'll tell you all about it later over some hot chocolate," he grinned at her, putting the car into drive. Turning to face the direction he had just come from on foot, he drove slowly and deliberately over the path he had dug out.

"Scott-"

"Just let me concentrate," he told her. "You'll get your answers soon."

Rogue sighed dramatically.

A minute later, Scott stopped the car and put it into park, but left it running. Scott got out of the car and pulled his hat down over his ears. Going around to her side, he tugged on her door handle.

Grumpily she got out of the warm car and shivered in the frigid December air. "Come on," he grabbed her black gloved hand in his own navy blue knitted one.

They stumbled through the knee deep snow, Scott basically dragging Rogue behind him. Her black jeans were wet, covered in ice. She could feel her face burning from the sting of the strong winter wind.

"Chome on-" she said, "it's freezin'! Where are we-" She cut her sentence off violently, voice faltering as she looked out over the painstakingly clear ice. Scott must have been shoveling snow off of the frozen pond all afternoon. The ice glittered with billions of sparkles, like stars on a clear summer night in the glow of the headlights of Scott's car. "Scott-"

"Ice skating," he tugged her towards the ice. "Sit."

She sat down on a mound of packed snow at the edge of the pond, letting Scott pull out a pair of white figure skating ice skates. They were delegate, with thin, pale pink laces, and rustles blades. Scott pulled off his gloved with his teeth as he struggled to unlace Rogue's black combat boot.

"Ah don't skate," she said.

He looked up at her, "I know."

"But ah _can't_ skhate," she said desperately. Scott ignored her, slipping her foot into the cold interior of the skate and began lacing it up. Ignoring her protests, he repeated the act with her other foot. Then, putting on a larger black pair of hockey skates, obviously well worn, he got to his feet gracefully.

"Come on," he held out his hands towards her.

She shook her head.

"Please?" He questioned, smiling the lopsided smile which no one could resist. Well maybe Logan could, but everyone else-

"F'hine," she growled, taking his hands and letting him pull her unsteadily to her feet, "but if ah crack ma head open, it's yer fault."

"Got it," he grinned. "Perfect. Now push off with one foot."

She rolled her eyes, but complied, almost sending herself sprawling on her face if Scott hadn't held her up with a kind laugh.

"Try again," he instructed. Grudgingly she complied, and with Scott skating backwards deftly, they moved. "Other foot now."

She pushed with her other foot, sliding wobbly across the ice.

"Much better."

For the next hour Scott taught Rogue to ice skate. They fell a few times, but by the end, Rogue couldn't say they didn't have fun.

"-so then she says 'I don't speak Mexican though.'" Scott finished his story, leaving Rogue laughing so hard she lost her precarious balance. Both she and Scott went tumbling into a bank of snow by the edge of the pond.

"Are yeh okay?" Rogue asked, sitting up.

Scott just laughed, stretching out over the snow.

"Scott?"

"Have you ever just laid down and watched the snow?" He asked.

"No," Rogue said, "but ma clothes are gettin' all wet."

"Try it," he tugged her back. "Just look at the snow."

Through half closed eyes, she watched the snow fall, her eyelashes catching the white flakes as they plummeted towards her face, lingering a few moments on her wind chilled skin before eventually melting from her body heat. Each flake of snow fell on it's own, twisting and turning as it fell gracefully through the night.

"Sometimes," Scott said quietly, "when I was a kid, I'd go in the backyard and just watch the snow fall like this for hours. I'd fabricate these imaginary stories inside of my head, you know, those 'what if''s. My two favorites were being an Air Force pilot like my dad, and being a superhero." He chuckled darkly. "I guess one of those two daydreams did become reality, huh?"

"Ah-whanted to be a ballet dancer," Rogue said softly. "But Irene, tha woman who ah lived with, said dancin' was fer fools. It whasn't constructive, or somethin' lhike that. But ah had this copy o' The Nutcracker on video, and I'hd watch it aghain and aghain, pretendin' ah was tha lead dancer. Ah would spin 'n twirl in mah bedroom, praticin' every move ah could without ya know, breakin' stuff or makin' too much noise. 'N then one day when ah was ten, ah threw out tha video."

"Why?"

"'Cause," her voice cracked, "Ah knew ah would nev'a learn ta dance like those people on tha stage. They were all so graceful, so beautiful, so strong. And then when mah mutation kicked in...." She trailed off.

"Being mutants has taken a lot of things away from all of us," Scott said, voice quiet. "It's times like these that I realize that."

Silently Rogue agreed.

"But also-" Scott continued, "it helps remind us that life is a beautiful, precious thing. It makes us realize that every moment is a gift."

"How so?" Rogue sat up, her hat had fallen off and snow clung to her chestnut hair. "How does this curse teach ma ta love life?"

"Because," Scott said quietly, "someday you will realize that even though the struggle is hard, fighting every moment of every day is exhausting, and the benefits are few, there is more to this world than you and me. Life's gift to us is the knowledge that this world is not a perfect place, but it can hold love, comfort, hope, and the ability to achieve dreams. We've lost a lot, Rogue, but we've been given the ability to _change the world_. Maybe it will be for the better? Maybe for the worse. But any way you look at it, life has dealt our hands to us. It's up to us to decide how to play the game."

"I don't wanna' be different," Rogue whispered more to herself. "I jus' wan' it ta all go away."

Scott sat up. "Rogue, just because we got genetically short changed, it doesn't mean that we need to give up on all of our hopes and dreams. Some of them will never come true, like mine of being an Air Force pilot, but yours, Rogue. It's not too late, you know."

"Scott," she turned to look at him, "a'hm too old ta learn ta dance."

He simply grinned at her, "never say never. Didn't you just tell me an hour ago that you couldn't ice skate?"

"Well-"

"_Anything_ is possible. Rogue. _Anything_."

On the way home, Rogue reached over and turned down the radio so Scott could hear her over the serenade of '_I'll Be Home For Christmas.'_ "Scott, ah was wonderin' somethin'."

"I'm all ears."

"Those ice skates, where'd ya get e'm from?" She twirled a strand of her damp hair around her finger. "Were they Jean's or Kitty's?"

"No," Scott's voice hushed, "no, they were my mom's. She used to figure skate when she was a kid. I guess she was pretty good. They were hers, before she quit skating that was."

"Why'd ya let ma wear 'em?" She asked. "Ah mean-"

"You want to know if I let every girl I haul out into a snowstorm in the middle of the night two days before Christmas to teach to ice skate gets to wear her skates?" He chuckled sadly at that. "No. You're the first person to wear them since-since she died."

"If ah would'a known-"

"Rogue," he spared her a glance, pulling his eyes off of the dangerous road for only a mere moment. "I wanted you to wear them. They mean something to me. They're really all I have left of her besides a few pictures. My mom would have wanted me to share them with someone who deserved to wear them, okay? Besides, all they were doing were sitting in a box underneath my bed collecting dust for the past nine years."

Rogue smiled, leaning back in the seat and turning up the volume on the radio, satisfied with the answer she had received.

"Santa baby jus' slip ah sable unda' tha tree fer ma. Ah've been an awhful good ghirl. Santa baby, so hurry down tha chimney tohnight," she sang along with the radio.

Scott grinned. "Santa baby, a 54' convertible too, light blue. I'll wait up for you dear. So Santa baby, hurry down the chimney tonight."

Rogue laughed, "Gawd, Scott. Maybe this ain't tha best song fer ya ta sing."

He laughed. "What? It's a good song."

Rogue shook her head.

The rest of the ride back to the Institute was spent in banter and singing.

That night, Rogue lay in bed, thinking about the night Scott had given her. She would never forget this December 23rd for the rest of her life. Maybe winter wasn't that bad after all.


	5. Christmas is a Time For Hurting

"Jean," Kitty sat down next to the red head on the couch. She was watching an old black and white movie. If Kitty remembered correctly, it was 'It's a Wonderful Life."

"Yes?" The older girl turned away from the screen, giving the brown haired mutant her full attention, "what's up, Kitty?"

"Well," she blushed slightly, "I know it's really not any of my business, but-well Rogue and Kurt were making fun of Scott's er-lack of holiday spirit, and like, I was just wondering why he doesn't really-um, like celebrate? With the rest of us that is. Like decorating the tree or lighting the menorah or anything."

Jean sighed, "Kitty, it's really complicated."

The girl nodded.

"But not really my story to share." Jean shook her head, "Look, if you want to know the truth, you are going to have to talk to Scott and get it from him, okay"

Kitty looked at her in horror, "like, no way!"

Jean nodded, "Sorry, Kitty, but if he wants to tell you, he can tell you."

Kitty sighed, "Okay, Jean. Thanks."

Jean smiled sadly, "Look, Kitty. Christmas is a...hard time for him, okay? Just-don't push it too much if he doesn't want to talk, okay?"

Kitty nodded.

She found him in the garage, working on the X-Van, which had been making weird clanking noises the last time Rogue had driven it to the mall with Kitty and Kurt. He was leaning over the engine, the hood propped up. Clearing her throat, Scott's head shot up, and he bashed it off of the hood.

"OhmyGodScott!" She exclaimed, "Are you okay?"

Scott clutched his head for a moment, teeth gritted, "yeah." He took his hand away from the sore spot and was relieved to see no blood, "you just startled me."

"Well-uh, sorry."

"It's fine," Scott tried to ignore the throbbing pain in his head. "Did you need something?"

"Oh yeah," she flushed slightly, "I, um, like brought you some hot chocolate."

She handed him the mug and he took it, raising his eyebrow. "Thanks." He sniffed it, "you didn't-"

"Ororo made it," Kitty said with a small grin, "like, don't worry."

"I didn't mean to insult you."

"I know," Kitty sighed, "I've decided cooking isn't my calling."

"Well that's a relief," Scott joked. Cocking his head, he sat down on the bench next to the teenage girl, "what's going on?"

She blinked at him, "what makes you think-"

"It's in your face," he said softly, "and in your voice. Your back is too straight. Little indicators in body language can teach a lot about what a person is really feeling, Kitty."

She flushed darker, "well. I'm really bad at this sort of thing, so I'll spit it out. If you don't want to give me an answer, it's okay."

Scott nodded. "Okay?"

"Well, I asked Jean about why you hate the holidays, but she wouldn't tell me. She told me to talk to you if I really wanted the truth." She paused, "Um-so here I am. I'm like, not trying to pry, I'm just curious. I always figured you'd be one of those like, gung-ho popcorn stringing, light hanging people, you know?" She ducked her head, taking a sip of her own hot chocolate.

Scott sighed, "I wondered when one of you would ask me." His voice was quiet, quieter than Kitty was used to hearing it. "I guess you do deserve the truth. It's not that I hate the holidays, Kitty. It's just-they hurt and.....sometimes I just can't take it."

Kitty looked up at him.

"I lost my parents and little brother nine years ago this past August," his voice was quiet and controlled. "Plane crash. I was the only one who survived. They always-they always say the holidays are the hardest time of the year for survivors. People who lost loved ones that is. Well it's true. I-crap, I'm unloading on you. sorry, Kitty. You don't need to hear all of this."

"No," she said, "It's okay. I'm really sorry about your family, Scott. I had no idea-"

"No one does, only Xavier, Ororo, and Jean. Now you do. I just-miss them I guess. Whenever I see one of those old Christmas movies, it reminds me of those holidays I spent with my family at whatever air force base my dad was stationed at." He swallowed hard, "my mom always went all out, you know? A turkey with all of the trimmings, decorating the tree Christmas Eve, stockings, presents, Santa, milk and cookies, reading Christmas stories before bed. And-" His voice cracked, "it's sometimes just too much for me to take. I'm not...not strong enough."

He took a sip of his hot chocolate.

Kitty sighed quietly, "I have no idea what it must feel like to have lost so much." She paused, "but you are the strongest person I know. I don't know how you do it. If I was in your shoes, I....well I don't know that I'd do, but I would not be anywhere as strong as you. Scott, it's going to hurt. It will always hurt. But some day when you have a family of your own, you will have the chance to honor the memory of your Christmas's with your family by making the Christmas's for your own children just as special as the ones from your own childhood."

Scott nodded stiffly. "I just-the wound's just too raw still. It's been nine years but-"

Kitty closed her eyes for a brief moment, "I don't blame you at all. This must be-unbelievably hard for you. I'm glad you told me, Scott. I really am."

"You know what?" He looked at her with a small, honest, lopsided smile, "so am I."

Kitty grinned at him.

"Well I should get back to work on the van," he said, getting up. "The fan-belt needs to be replaced."

Kitty looked at him, taking his empty mug, "you do realize I have like, absolutely no idea what a fan belt is, right?"

Scott chuckled, "Yeah, I guess I do."

As Kitty reached the doorway, she turned as Scott spoke.

"Kitty?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks for caring."

She blushed slightly, "that's what family is for, Scott."

And then she phased through the door, leaving Scott to mull over her parting words.


	6. It's Not Christmas Without Snow

Pushing back her mop of red hair, the hollow green eyes of the small child looked dully out over the barren, wet landscape of her back yard. In all the lack-luster splendor that was the average American backyard, rain poured down on the old swing set, slightly rusty from disuse, and the muddy flower garden her mother hired a gardener to cultivate during the summer months to amaze her guests in its beauty. Vaguely she heard the angry voices of her parents from downstairs, but she tuned it out, focusing instead on the droplets of rain dribbling down her bedroom window. She had pushed back her pink, gauzy curtains and sat on her padded window seat where she had spent hours of her childhood pretending that she was the queen overlord of her stuffed animals, and the window seat was her throne. Now it was just another chair.

Cocking her head to the side, she traced the icy cold glass with her finger, following the paths of the dribbling rain as each individual drop raced each other down the pane. Inwardly she cringed as her mother's particularly shrill voice cut through the slight dull roar she constantly heard inside her head. They were arguing about her, it was always about her. Well, not necessarily about her, but about her little 'problem.' Sarah had stormed out of the house an hour earlier in a rage, yelling that she was going to her friend Becky's Christmas Party. Jean thought Sarah was gorgeous. Sixteen years old, glossy brown curls, brown eyes, dressed in the black dress Jean always wanted to try on, but Sarah never let her out of spite, though she told her parents it was because she was worried Jean would 'ruin' it like she did everything else.

As these sad thoughts pervaded her mind, she lost her hold on the empty void where she was alone, and once again was swimming in a sea of a million voices. Cupping her hands over her ears, she turned away from the window and squeezed her eyes tightly shut, mumbling 'stop it, sop it,' over and over again in a chant. Opening her eyes again, she saw that the contents of the top of her dresser were floating eerily above the surface, and she squeaked, causing them to fall, luckily with a light clatter to the white carpet on the floor. The voices had stopped their assault, and, breathing heavily, Jean leaned her head back against the window, cold from the December weather. It didn't feel like Christmas Eve to her, there was no caroling, no smoking fireplace, no cheerful Christmas re-runs on their television. There was no smell of baking cookies, no Christmas music blaring from the radio, and the thrill of waiting for Santa was long gone for Jean since when, Sarah, in an angry moment, blurted out to her the truth about the Christmas icon last year when she was ten years old. And most of all, there was no snow. Christmas wasn't complete without snow. No, this wasn't Christmas. This was just one more empty, meaningless day of the year.

With a small sigh, Jean got up from her seat and padded silently across the plush carpet and began to pick up her mess. Luckily nothing had broken, but some of her glitter she had from her Halloween costume had spilled on the carpet. She rubbed it in with her sock-covered foot. Her mother would never notice, she never cleaned. The maid wouldn't care, it just gave her something else to do except to be berated by Elaine Grey about her lack of cleaning ability and shoddy job performance. Jean liked Hannah, their maid who came twice a week to vacuum and disinfect their house. Jean's mother was a germaphobe, but getting down on her own hands and knees to scrub the kitchen floor appalled the dignified woman who would much rather hire someone else to do it and then complain about all the dirt the young woman missed. But Jean was nice to Hannah, and Hannah in return brought her sugar cookies that her own mother baked at home weekly, and told her funny stories over her lunch break about the misadventures of her numerous brothers, sisters, and cousins.

Jean's wish every birthday was that she could be magically transported into another world where she had a family just like Hannah's, and none of these bad things, like Annie's death, ever happened. She would much rather have to get a job to help support her family rather than live in the dead luxury of the empty house she lived in right now. This wasn't a home, in her opinion, it was a stage, a front for other people to look at and admire, while everyone living there tested out their acting skills, only allowing their masks to deteriorate after the company had left. It was then that the yelling began.

Hannah hadn't come that week, she had spent the time with her family, much to Elaine's displeasure, but John had been understanding. Jean's father was like that, a good man who was trapped in a life he detested as much as Jean did. With that final thought, Jean finished setting her nicknack's on her dresser top and grabbed a book from her bookshelf. Flopping dejectedly down on her ruffled pink bed, she glanced longingly out the window once more and opened to her book marker, but her mind wasn't on the text in the book. Instead, she couldn't stop thinking about Hannah. What was she doing right now? Was her family celebrating, getting ready for mass tonight? Were they decorating their Christmas tree and finishing wrapping the meager gifts they could afford? Could they be stringing popcorn like they did on old movies and throwing it at each other, trying to get it in the others mouth and missing horribly, but laughing all the same?

Whatever the young woman was doing right now, Jean was sure it was much better than lying alone in a over-decorated bedroom, thinking about what might have been if things were different. This wasn't her home. Jean knew she didn't belong here, but it wasn't as if she had anywhere else to go. Her parents never let her go out alone. She was tutored privately at home, considered too fragile to attend public school, or even private school by her parents. She had no friends outside of the snotty children of her mother's friends and her father's colleagues from the college. She was alone, completely and utterly alone except for the voices vying for attention inside of her head. Sometimes Jean liked it that way, and she took solace in someone Else's world for awhile, but everyone was the same, tainted, jaded, angry, bad. They all were so......dirty and......normal. So bland, and oblivious to the world outside of their mundane lives.

No one else saw the world the way she did, Jean was sure. She was a freak of nature, her parents shame embodied. Some days, she wished she simply stopped existing, and vanished off the face of the earth, never to be seen again. It would be so much easier that way, and all of her parents problems would finally go away because she was the stem of all of the problems her family experienced. Because of her freakishness. She was so alone. She was eleven years old and already considering what the world would be like without her, just like in A Christmas Story. But hers wouldn't have a happy ending like the main characters did. Her endings never ended well. It was her luck, or lack thereof it.

It's not Christmas Without Snow.


End file.
